


Nobody said it was easy

by sous_le_saule



Series: All those fires we've been walking through [1]
Category: God's Own Country (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: Three years together. A ring has been waiting for a while now, hidden in the back of a drawer. It might stay there forever, as everything has gone downhill.





	Nobody said it was easy

**Author's Note:**

> When I left the cinema, I was happy with the hopeful ending but, at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking, “Boys, it’s not going to be that easy.” So I wrote about it. The title is borrowed from “The Scientist” by Coldplay.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely and patient betareader, Gardenvarietycrime, who kindly corrected my broken English.

Today’s going to be a shite day. Johnny can feel it in his guts. Not that life has been a bed of roses lately, but this morning grips his belly with particularly vicious claws. What could happen _now_? What worse? Several ideas instantly pop into his mind, most of them involving Gheorghe or Nan, some others the farm, and he regrets the stupid question. Anyway, there’s no other option than to keep dressing and do the work that needs to be done. Cows don’t care whether it’s a good day or a bad one.

The only pair of socks left in the drawer taunts him. Bugger, he’ll have to find some time for the laundry. Like he hasn’t got enough to do already. Gheorghe should have thought of it, he knows they can’t count on Nan for now. But Johnny is well aware the resentment is undeserved, because Gheorghe takes more than his fair share of her work.

Some days, she gets a hold of herself and she works as hard as ever. And then there are the other days, much more frequent, when she wanders in the house like a silent ghost, or stands at the window for hours. Johnny would never say it out loud, but it scares him. She’s always been so strong. She’s always fought, with her own weapons. Keeping the house and clothes clean. Feeding her family, making miracles with a fiver. Tending the beasts when Johnny was overwhelmed with the harvest. But now, she seems to have lost her reason to fight. Sometimes, he wants to shake her and shout, “I’m still ’ere, me. And so’s Gheorghe. An’ we need ye.” But it would hardly be fair. She has every right to take the time to mourn. More than him. As sad as it is, losing a father is in the order of things. Outliving a son is not.

He grabs the socks before he remembers why they’re rolled together into an odd-shaped ball. This is the pair where he hides the ring, safely stored in its tiny box. He puts the socks back in the drawer as if they’d burned his fingers.

It started out as an unfunny joke. A daft comment he made because, even after all this time, he can’t cope with Gheorghe staring at him the way he did that day, when they’d just saved that sickly lamb. The way he always does, with soft and shining eyes wrapping Johnny in a warm, fluffy blanket. _Does_. _Does_. Not _did_. Johnny needs to cling on to it. Gheorghe still looks at him like that. Sometimes. When it’s not sad or worried eyes he’s turning towards him.

How the hell did Johnny dismiss such a look, like one of those rich bastards who disdain a first-class meal, so sure they’ll have plenty of them every day for the rest of their lives?

“Don’t stand there, gapin’ at me like yer ’bout t’ask me to get wed,” he teased awkwardly, closely examining the bleating survivor in an attempt to hide the blush he could feel on his cheeks.

“I’d have done it already, but everyone would’ve thought it was to stay in England and lay hands on the farm,” Gheorghe replied with a little laugh. But Johnny had heard enough of his laughs – now, in front of the open drawer, he refuses to think how scarce they’ve become lately – to feel something amiss in that one, unperceptive as he is. And it hit him like a ton of bricks. _He_ should have proposed a long time ago. He knew Gheorghe was rightly worried about Brexit and all that rubbish. But no concrete immigration law had been passed yet. Besides, even with Gheorghe’s unfaltering help, Johnny was dazed with work most of the time, and the continual attention his father needed left no place in his mind for something like a wedding. Or maybe he’d grown getting so used to the idea that he would never marry anyone, it didn’t even occur to him that he could ask Gheorghe. That Gheorghe might say yes.

He could find millions of excuses why he hadn’t proposed, but what was the point? The truth is, he’d been daft as a brush. As usual.

He wanted to punch himself for his own stupidity. Of course, Gheorghe was in no position to make the first move - Johnny doesn’t give a shit about people’s gossip, but he’s not the one being called _Gypsy_ and _thief_ wherever he goes. And he suddenly wondered if Gheorghe’s “everyone” included Nan and Dad. Maybe even Johnny himself. He hoped, with all his heart, that Gheorghe knew, knew for sure, he would never ever think such a slander.

He could have proposed to him right there but he thought Gheorghe would appreciate it if he abided by the rules. So he went to a jeweller’s. He’d rather have used his grandpa’s wedding ring. Mostly for the symbol – not that he’s much into that kind of thing, but a family jewel seemed appropriate, right? And, he had to admit, it would have saved money. Even with the farm making more profit, thanks to some modernisations and the direct sale of their cheeses, they were still on a knife-edge. Dad’s medical care guzzled almost all the money. Better to spend what little they’d saved on two tickets to Romania.

But Nan confessed she’d sold the ring several years ago, when the farm had gone through a rough patch due to the mad cow disease. “’Twas buyin’ food or keepin’ a reminder,” she said. “I made my choice.” She didn’t ask why he wanted it. But, well, it was obvious enough and she didn’t argue against it either. So he guessed she was fine with it. He bought the simplest and cheapest band. Still, Romania would have to wait a little more. Or maybe Gheorghe should go alone.

Johnny is getting tired of this. Really tired. Always watching their spending. Never being able to buy something nice for Gheorghe. He deserves so much better. But it looks like he’s doomed to make do with pieces of junk, isn’t he?

He’d planned to do it on their third anniversary. Gheorghe is fond of symbolic dates. For their first year together, he’d come home at the end of the day with a bunch of wildflowers, leaving Johnny both moved and ashamed of being empty-handed. Celebrations weren’t exactly a family custom. Besides, he’d have been at a loss to pinpoint a day. When was their anniversary? The day of the blowjob on the hill, with Johnny trying so hard to fight what was burgeoning confusedly in his heart? Or the day they’d kissed and made, maybe not love yet, but undoubtedly something he’d never known and that had thrown him off? When he’d seen the flowers, he’d understood Gheorghe had opted for the day Johnny had chased after him and they’d returned to the farm together – he remembered the day very well from all the time he’d spent staring blankly at the time-stamped coach ticket during the journey there. He’d felt that choice was a way to exclude the man in the pub from their story. _You didn’t cheat on me since we weren’t really together yet._ Johnny just couldn’t tell which of them it was supposed to make feel better. Both, probably.

Yeah, their third anniversary would have been perfect, and it even would have left him two weeks to prepare the right words.

Four days before he could say them, Dad died.

Johnny closes the drawer sharply, jaw clenched. The socks he wore yesterday are lying on the floor, next to the bed. He picks them with an irritated sigh and puts them on, then heads downstairs. 

It’s auction day and he has no time for more than a coffee. He finds his breakfast packed and Gheorghe finishing his own, welcoming him with a hint of a smile.

Johnny can’t get the ring – which has been waiting for almost two months in that fucking pair of socks - out of his head. He just couldn’t propose right after Dad’s stroke. And he still can’t. Because he’s no longer the man who bought the band.

“Before you go…” Gheorghe starts hesitantly, “I saw Bennett yesterday.” He adds quickly, “He came while you were at the cemetery with Deirdre.” A bit defensively, as if Johnny was about to accuse him of plotting behind his back. It doesn’t improve his mood. “He insists that we give him an answer soon.”

_Fuck Henry Bennett and his offer to buy the north pasture_ is the only answer Johnny is willing to give. That daft fool competed against his father to buy it ten years ago and now that Dad is dead, he’s lusting after the plot neighbouring his farm like a dog after an abandoned bone. Gheorghe is in favour of selling. They could do without that land and the money would serve to finish paying for the funeral – the cheapest, once more, but it cost a bomb all the same and they’re now skint. They could also invest in more sheep and a bigger fridge, enabling them to make more cheeses. Gheorghe has gotten the idea to drum up local restaurateurs and grocers – a steady cash flow in sight. But Dad was so proud to have expanded the family estate. “Addin’ t’yer inheritance”, he said.

“Must we talk ’bout it _now_?” Johnny shoots back curtly.

He knows what Gheorghe is thinking. _You weren’t sober enough to talk about it last night._ But he won’t say it. He won’t even press for an answer. As expected, he just gives Johnny one of his attentive, patient looks, confident he’ll eventually wear him down. Johnny angrily gulps his coffee and goes out to get the cow ready. Gheorghe calls him back, his voice calm and filled with weariness, but doesn’t follow him outside.

 

***

 

Not a bad price, but he hoped for a bit more. And all the unavoidable purchases he made this afternoon – food, antiseptic and barbed wire – have already dipped into the profits. At this rate, Gheorghe is not about to see his family again, unless Johnny sells Dad’s pasture.

He needs a drink. Just one pint. With a shot of sambuca, maybe. Then he’ll go home, tend the beasts and do the damn laundry.

The pub is half full. He almost collapses on a bar stool. He doesn’t remember ever being so exhausted. Probably because he hasn’t slept well lately, despite of his tiredness. Or maybe he’s just getting old. 

Sambuca feels good. Comforting, and warm inside. Less so than Gheorghe’s embraces, sure, but Johnny definitely can’t indulge in one of them these days. Since Dad died, Gheorghe has tried many times to initiate a hug, whispering that it’s okay to cry. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand that Johnny is afraid he’ll dissolve if he allows himself to melt into his arms. That Johnny doesn’t want to cry. He wants to smash something. To punch someone. To bang his own head against the closest wall. Repeatedly. Anything that could make him forget a part of him is relieved by Dad’s death. The constant caring. The sense of powerlessness as his health was getting worse day by day. The distress of seeing his father, usually so tough, crying when his dependency was too unbearable and humiliating.

When the barman asks if he wants the same again, Johnny nods. That’s the problem with the first glass, it leaves you less able to refuse the second one. And then, you’re already screwed.

He managed to keep it under control for three years. He didn’t quit drinking altogether but he was able to skip it for a day. Two in a row, even, on good weeks. And when he needed it, once the job done, a couple of well-deserved beers at home were enough. He thought Gheorghe had been mistaken. He _was_ the answer.

But alcohol is a patient lover, waiting for you to return. Confident that you will, sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time before life gives you a reason.

Turns out Gheorghe was right, after all. His only mistake was agreeing to come back. How long until he understands? How long until contempt and disgust replace the sadness and worry in his eyes when Johnny comes home half drunk or spends the evening going on a bender in front of the telly? It’s exhausting, too, dreading that day.

Johnny tenses as his mobile buzzes. It can only be Gheorghe, calling to find out why he’s so late. Dinnertime and all that. But he’s too comfortable to move. A bit like floating. It feels nice. Just resting a while longer. Just one more drink. He turns his mobile off.

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” Gheorghe said a few days ago, when Johnny came back from the grocery store with a couple of six-packs. Gheorghe refused to buy booze anymore when he was the one going food shopping. Johnny opened a can and defiantly gulped it. In the vague hope that Gheorghe would blow up and maybe even punch him. Threaten to do it, at least, like the night he’d left – hurting him way more than he could have with a biff. But he probably no longer cares enough to get mad. He merely shook his head, ending tiredly, “But you do need help.”

The next morning, there was a piece of paper in front of Johnny’s bowl. The number of a helpline and information about AA meetings. He crumpled it. Like he has time for that shit. Nobody can’t help him anyway. He doesn’t kid himself. He’s a fuck-up again.

It must be late now. The pub is packed. He’s lost count of his drinks. He hazily watches a bloke playing darts. Young. Dark hair. Nice arse. 

Once again, Johnny tries to imagine what the man Gheorghe has left in Romania looks like. Certainly, Gheorghe wouldn’t have even glanced at Johnny if that guy had been around. Maybe _they_ would be married now, if Gheorghe could have stayed there – supposing Romania allows gay marriage. But would they still be happy? Hard to say. People change, and rarely for the better. He knows a thing or two about that. Lucky break for Gheorghe that Dad didn’t die four days later, all in all.

Committing to someone is quite something, for sure. A bloody gamble on the future.

Dammit. Since when doesn’t alcohol hold back overthinking? Actually, since when does he think that much? Oh, he knows full well what the answer is. Since Gheorghe.

The dart player is now sitting at the other end of the counter, intensely staring at him, a provocative smile on his face. He looks somewhat familiar, all of a sudden. Has Johnny ever fucked him, in what seems another life? Quite possibly.

The man stands up, whispers something to his mate, laughs then walks along the counter, brushing past Johnny as he passes behind him. Before he pushes the door to the loo, he gives Johnny a meaningful look.  

_That_ could do the trick. Shut the thoughts up. Finally.

Impulsively, Johnny gets off the bar stool and follows the man. Hardly has he set foot in the lav when the bloke grasps him and runs his hands all over him, with an appreciative hum at Johnny’s already half-hard cock. Johnny feels a little dizzy but, as the guy tries to kiss him, his old reflexes resurface. He doesn’t kiss. He brutally turns the man around and pins him against the wall. This is exactly what he needs. The release. Not something overwhelming him with feelings, like every time he and Gheorghe make love. Even when Gheorghe agrees to indulge him in rough sex, he manages to leave Johnny breathless with emotion, chest aching.

It’s only when the man faces him with an interrogative look that Johnny becomes aware of his own dazed stillness. He can no longer stand the hand vainly rubbing his clothed, softened cock. He pushes the guy away from him. The bloke frowns then flashes a scornful smile.

“So it’s true, what they say. Your Gypsy has you castrated, eh?”

He’ll eat his words. Fists clenched, Johnny is about to beat the crap out of this arsehole and _this_ will really, really, make him feel better. The only thing that holds him back, at the last second, is the sneaking suspicion that if he starts to smash the bastard, he won’t stop until he disfigures him. In a flash, he imagines Gheorghe’s eyes at the call from the police. The coldest shower couldn’t damper him faster. Hands trembling, he forces himself to breathe out and hastily leaves the room, struggling to ignore the man’s snickers.

He rushes out the pub, just quickly enough to throw up in the gutter. Light-headed, he winces at the taste in his mouth, spits and leans against the facade, taking gulps of the warm night air. He’s a little more lucid now that most of the alcohol is out of his stomach, and he realises how late it is. Gheorghe and Nan must be worried. _Gheorghe_. With the hint of recovered clarity comes the sharp feeling of guilt.

He runs to the van. Before he turns the ignition, his eyes fall upon the grocery bag on the passenger seat and the packet of chocolate biscuits poking out. He bought Gheorghe’s favourite. Not the store brand they usually buy because it’s cheaper and Gheorghe pretends it tastes the same, even though Johnny knows he likes these ones better. Such a small thing, but he was genuinely happy, for a moment, at the thought of bringing them to him. And then… and then he acted like an idiot, forgetting he was the luckiest bastard on Earth for the second chance Gheorghe had given him, and screwing it up. A sudden, cold shiver runs down his spine. A creeping foreboding. He’ll never be able to give Gheorghe the biscuits because he’ll be gone. Again, and for good. The farm will be silent, empty of Gheorghe’s belongings, and this time he won’t even have left his jumper behind, like the skin of their dead relationship, in the hope of making Johnny grow up. No, this time, he’ll have known Johnny is too hopeless to deserve that last gesture.

He takes off like a shot. Please, please, let it not be too late. The van seems as cruelly slow as the coach, that day - their first one, Gheorghe asserted, but today they can’t soothe themselves with such a sleight of hand. Johnny swears as he misses a turn and the vehicle almost falls into the ditch. By some miracle, he safely reaches the farm. He brakes abruptly. At this time of night, the household is usually asleep, with all lights off. Though those of the ground floor are still turned on, as waiting up for him, and Johnny could swear the curtains of Nan’s bedroom have just moved. He opens the door, fearing that the heartwarming feeling of being welcomed home may be deceptive. It can’t be home, if Gheorghe is gone.       

But he’s here. _He’s here, he’s here, he’s here,_ drums Johnny’s heart. He has dozed off in front of the television, his mouth half open and his head resting on the back of the sofa. Johnny can’t help gazing at him, at his lovely face, and gorgeous curls, and long, dark eyelashes, rediscovering these so familiar features, like when Gheorghe had him marvel at the surrounding landscape. After some time, one tends to neglect the beauty lying before their eyes but, God, Johnny would die happy if he could just stare at him for the rest of his life.

Noticing Gheorghe’s phone on his lap, Johnny uneasily wonders how many times he’s tried to call him. Gheorghe shifts slightly. His eyes flutter open and focus on Johnny, stunning him - for it’s not anger or disappointment he sees in them, but relief.

Before Gheorghe can question him, Johnny silently hands him the packet of biscuits he’s gripping. As Gheorghe’s questioning gaze travels from the packet to his face, Johnny eventually says, “I’m sorry.” He learned to say it, at least.

“For what?” Gheorghe asks impassively, but Johnny can hear the apprehension in his voice.

What would be the greater cowardice? To keep quiet about what happened and almost happened, or to ease his conscience by confessing it, even if it means hurting Gheorghe? Later. Johnny will think about it later. He’s not clear-headed enough for now.

“For bein’ a prick.”

Gheorghe stares at him pensively, then goes for a lopsided smile. “Ah, that. Well, I’m used to it.” Johnny feels the corners of his mouth twitch. He was unable to smile until Gheorghe walked into his life. How on earth did he forget that, lately? Gheorghe accepts the biscuits with a thankful tilt of his head, adding in a mischievous tone that fails to hide a remaining touch of anxiety, “Is there anything _new_?”

_Marry me,_ Johnny nearly rattles out, _I don’t deserve you but marry me and never leave me ‘cause there’s no way I could endure it._

But he doesn’t. Not now, when he must look like a mess and he’s eaten up with remorse. First, he has to become worthy of it. He wants to be the man who bought the ring again.

“I’m goin’ t’say yes to Bennett. If it can make our life easier, I think that’s what Dad would’ve wanted. An’… an’ I’ll get ’elp. Not sure what, yet, but ye got me word.” Gheorghe nods gravely. “An’ I love you.” Gheorghe taught him how to say this, too. And even though it’s still a bit awkward, it’s a good thing Johnny could say it to Dad before he died. “But that’s not new,” he mumbles.

And here they are, the soft, shining eyes. Gheorghe opens his arms with an inviting look. Johnny lets himself fall on the sofa and clumsily nestles against him, desperately clinging to Gheorghe’s sweatshirt.

“Why did ye stay?” Johnny asks in a muffled voice.

He’s not thinking about what happened tonight, realising how irrational it was, to believe Gheorghe would know about it. And, of course, Gheorghe gets what his question means, because he always understands him better than Johnny understands himself.

“Because I love you. In good times and in bad. This is how it works.”

Johnny holds him tighter, getting drunk on Gheorghe’s comforting scent. The dam breaks. Heavy, choked sobs escape from his throat.

“That’s it,” Gheorghe whispers, gently rubbing Johnny’s back. “Cry as much as you need to. I’m here.”


End file.
